The Naming Bureau

I'd only been down to the Naming Bureau once before, when I needed a name for the growth on my neck. It hadn't gone well. They sent me to the Neck department, where I was told that I had a medical condition, not a neck condition. So I was sent to the Illness department, but they refused to see me and shot me over to the Growth department -- and they were closed for the day because one of the managers had passed away and everyone was at his funeral. My doctor wouldn't treat me until I had an official name for the growth on my neck, which kept getting bigger and redder. Just as I was at my wit's end the thing broke open and drained completely, leaving just a small black scar behind. 
This time I determined to play it safe, so instead of heading to one of the departments I glided up to the Information desk and smiled at the lady buffing her knuckles with a chamois cloth.
"Good morning" I said politely.
"Good morning" she replied in a neutral voice. "How can I help you?"
"Well" I began, "you see, I'm a little bit confused as to where I should go for a name. Not sure what department this falls under, and I was wondering if you could help me find the right place to go."
"I can try" she said, still in a very neutral voice; but she did make eye contact with me. "What is it needs naming?"
I held both my hands out to her.
"My hands smell like boiled yams" I said. "Even after a vigorous washing."
She sniffed at them tentatively, then nodded her head.
"They do indeed" she affirmed.
"Who do you think is in charge of naming such a thing?" I asked.
"Well . . . " she hesitated. "Well . . . let me contact my supervisor about this. One moment please." She swiveled away from me in her chair and spoke into a small green pillow, which immediately began quivering. She murmured something into it, listened intently, and then swiveled back to me.
"Mr. Mumby will be with you shortly. If you would take a seat over there . . ." she indicated a row of cement blocks covered with shards of broken glass.
"Thank you, I appreciate it" I replied. Politeness costs nothing, as Winston Churchill used to say.
I didn't have to wait long for Mr. Mumby. He was very tall and lean, and wore a red paper vest. We shook hands and then went into his office, which was filled with bags of marshmallows.
"It's marshmallow season, y'know" he said, grinning. "I think we'll have a bumper crop this year!" I couldn't help warming up to him.
"My hands . . . "I began.
"Yes, yes" he interrupted kindly. "Ms. Pitts explained your situation to me. May I have a whiff?"
I held out my hands for him to smell. He took his time, inhaling slowly several times. Then he sat back, taping his chin with an unsharpened pencil.
"I'd say they smell more like russet potatoes" he said, but I could tell he wasn't talking to me -- he was in a deep ponder, talking to himself. "Russet, with just a hint of fingerlings. The Ag people might be interested in this . . . but, no . . . they're understaffed as it is. Hmm . . . perfumery? They might enjoy taking a crack at it . . . they don't have much to do nowadays . . . or else Cuticles might take a whack at it . . ."
He continued to stare into space for a few more minutes, taping his chin with the pencil. Then, his face composed into a firm executive decision, he addressed me.
"We shall have to take one of your hands" he said. "It will be carefully sliced up and distributed to a dozen different departments for their input. We'll contact you once we reach a consensus."
"Wait a minute" I said nervously. "You want one of my hands?"
"Certainly. This is a complex situation that requires teamwork and deliberation -- not a snap decision. I wouldn't doubt that you'll get a mention on our website, too!" He gazed at me speculatively, like I was already in a petri dish. I no longer warmed to him, or even thought he was altogether human.
"No way are you taking off my hand!" I said emphatically. "What is this place, a butcher shop? I'm outta here!" I stood up to leave.
"Please calm yourself" he said mildly. But the look in his eyes was deeply sinister. "Don't make this any more difficult than it already is." He pressed a button on his desk. "I will have you escorted down to our Editing department."
Ms. Pitts was at the door, with a pair of handcuffs. But as far as I could see there wasn't anyone with her, and she was just a shrimp -- so I pushed her down and ran out of the Naming Bureau.  
So far I haven't been contacted or arrested by the authorities, and I've joined up with a Nameless group that is resisting the Naming Bureau and everything it stands for. 
If you'd like to contribute to our cause, leave money or sandwiches underneath the viaduct down by the feed mill. It's tax deductible.